“I came in search of you to pursue our game,” Foster explained when they had ministered to him, “and, ‘fore George, I am vastly grieved to find you in this condition.”
“Pish, sir, my condition is none so grievous — a scratch, no more, and were my heart itself pierced the knowledge that I have gained—” He stopped short. “But there, sir,” he added presently, “I am grateful beyond words for your timely ministration, and if to my debt you will add that of leaving me awhile to rest, I shall appreciate it.”
His glance met Cynthia’s and he smiled. The host coughed significantly, and shuffled towards the door. But Master Foster made no shift to move; but stood instead beside Galliard, though in apparent hesitation.
“I should like a word with you ere I go,” he said at length. Then turning and perceiving the landlord standing by the door in an attitude of eloquent waiting: “Take yourself off,” he cried to him. “Crush me, may not one gentleman say a word to another without being forced to speak into your inquisitive ears as well? You will forgive my heat, madam, but, God a’mercy, that greasy rascal tries me sorely.”
“Now, sir,” he resumed, when the host was gone. “I stand thus: I have lost to you to-day a sum of money which, though some might account considerable, is in itself no more than a trifle.
“I am, however, greatly exercised at the loss of certain trinkets which have to me a peculiar value, and which, to be frank, I staked in a moment of desperation. I had hoped, sir, to retrieve my losses o’er a friendly main this evening, for I have still to stake a coach and four horses — as noble a set of beasts as you’ll find in England, aye rat me. Your wound, sir, renders it impossible for me to ask you to give yourself the fatigue of obliging me. I come, then, to propose that you return me those trinkets against my note of hand for the amount that was staked on them. I am well known in town, sir,” he added hurriedly, “and you need have no anxiety.”
Crispin stopped him with a wave of the hand.
“I have none, sir, in that connexion, and I am willing to do as you suggest.” He thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew forth the rings, the brooch and the ear-ring he had won. “Here, sir, are your trinkets.”
“Sir,” cried Mr. Foster, thrown into some confusion by Galliard’s unquestioning generosity, “I am indebted to you. Rat me, sir, I am indeed. You shall have my note of hand on the instant. How much shall we say?”
“One moment, Mr. Foster,” said Crispin, an idea suddenly occurring to him. “You mentioned horses. Are they fresh?”
“As June roses.”
“And you are returning to London, are you not?”
“I am.”
“When do you wish to proceed?”
“To-morrow.”
“Why, then, sir, I have a proposal to make which will remove the need of your note of hand. Lend me your horses, sir, to reach Harwich. I wish to set out at once!”
“But your wound?” cried Cynthia. “You are still faint.”
“Faint! Not I. I am awake and strong. My wound is no wound, for a scratch may not be given that name. So there, sweetheart.” He laughed, and drawing down her head, he whispered the words: “Your father.” Then turning again to Foster. “Now, sir,” he continued, “there are four tolerable posthorses of mine below, on which you can follow tomorrow to Harwich, there exchanging them again for your own, which you shall find awaiting you, stabled at the Garter Inn. For this service, to me of immeasurable value, I will willingly cede those gewgaws to you.”
“But, rat me, sir,” cried Foster in bewilderment, “tis too generous— ‘pon honour it is. I can’t consent to it. No, rat me, I can’t.”
“I have told you how great a boon you will confer. Believe me, sir, to me it is worth twice, a hundred times the value of those trinkets.”
“You shall have my horses, sir, and my note of hand as well,” said Foster firmly.
“Your note of hand is of no value to me, sir. I look to leave England to-morrow, and I know not when I may return.”
Thus in the end it came about that the bargain was concluded. Cynthia’s maid was awakened and bidden to rise. The horses were harnessed to Crispin’s coach, and Crispin, leaning upon Harry Foster’s arm, descended and took his place within the carriage.
Leaving the London blood at the door of the Suffolk Arms, crushing, burning, damning and ratting himself at Crispin’s magnificence, they rolled away through the night in the direction of Ipswich.
Ten o’clock in the morning beheld them at the door of the Garter Inn at Harwich. But the jolting of the coach had so hardly used Crispin that he had to be carried into the hostelry. He was much exercised touching the Lady Jane and his inability to go down to the quay in quest of her, when he was accosted by a burly, red-faced individual who bluntly asked him was he called Sir Crispin Galliard. Ere he could frame an answer the man had added that he was Thomas Jackson, master of the Lady Jane — at which piece of good news Crispin felt like to shout for joy.
But his reflection upon his present position, when at last he lay in the schooner’s cabin, brought him the bitter reverse of pleasure. He had set out to bring Cynthia to his son; he had pledged his honour to accomplish it. How was he fulfilling his trust? In his despondency, during a moment when alone, he cursed the knave that had wounded him for his clumsiness in not having taken a lower aim when he fired, and thus solved him this ugly riddle of life for all time.
Vainly did he strive to console himself and endeavour to palliate the wrong he had done with the consideration that he was the man Cynthia loved, and not his son; that his son was nothing to her, and that she would never have accompanied him had she dreamt that he wooed her for another.
No. The deed was foul, and rendered fouler still by virtue of those other wrongs in whose extenuation it had been undertaken. For a moment he grew almost a coward. He was on the point of bidding Master Jackson avoid Calais and make some other port along the coast. But in a moment he had scorned the craven argument of flight, and determined that come what might he would face his son, and lay the truth before him, leaving him to judge how strong fate had been. As he lay feverish and fretful in the vessel’s cabin, he came well-nigh to hating Kenneth; he remembered him only as a poor, mean creature, now a bigot, now a fop, now a psalm-monger, now a roysterer, but ever a hypocrite, ever a coward, and never such a man as he could have taken pride in presenting as his offspring.
They had a fair wind, and towards evening Cynthia, who had been absent from his side a little while, came to tell him that the coast of France grew nigh.
His answer was a sigh, and when she chid him for it, he essayed a smile that was yet more melancholy. For a second he was tempted to confide in her; to tell her of the position in which he found himself and to lighten his load by sharing it with her. But this he dared not do. Cynthia must never know.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE AUBERGE DU SOLEIL
In a room of the first floor of the Auberge du Soleil, at Calais, the host inquired of Crispin if he were milord Galliard. At that question Crispin caught his breath in apprehension, and felt himself turn pale. What it portended, he guessed; and it stifled the hope that had been rising in him since his arrival, and because he had not found his son awaiting him either on the jetty or at the inn. He dared ask no questions, fearing that the reply would quench that hope, which rose despite himself, and begotten of a desire of which he was hardly conscious.
He sighed before replying, and passing his brown, nervous hand across his brow, he found it moist.
“My name, M. l’hote, is Crispin Galliard. What news have you for me?”
“A gentleman — a countryman of milord’s — has been here these three days awaiting him.”
For a little while Crispin sat quite still, stripped of his last rag of hope. Then suddenly bracing himself, he sprang up, despite his weakness.
“Bring him to me. I will see him at once.”
“Tout-a-l’heure, monsieur,” replied the landlord. “At the moment he is absent. He went out to take the air
a couple of hours ago, and is not yet returned.”
“Heaven send he has walked into the sea!” Crispin broke out passionately. Then as passionately he checked himself. “No, no, my God — not that! I meant not that.”
“Monsieur will sup?”
“At once, and let me have lights.” The host withdrew, to return a moment later with a couple of lighted tapers, which he set upon the table.
As he was retiring, a heavy step sounded on the stair, accompanied by the clank of a scabbard against the baluster.
“Here comes milord’s countryman,” the landlord announced.
And Crispin, looking up in apprehension, saw framed in the doorway the burly form of Harry Hogan.
He sat bolt upright, staring as though he beheld an apparition. With a sad smile, Hogan advanced, and set his hand affectionately upon Galliard’s shoulder.
“Welcome to France, Crispin,” said he. “If not him whom you looked to find, you have at least a loyal friend to greet you.”
“Hogan!” gasped the knight. “What make you here? How came you here? Where is Jocelyn?”
The Irishman looked at him gravely for a moment, then sighed and sank down upon a chair. “You have brought the lady?” he asked.
“She is here. She will be with us presently.”
Hogan groaned and shook his grey head sorrowfully.
“But where is Jocelyn?” cried Galliard again, and his haggard face looked very wan and white as he turned it inquiringly upon his companion. “Why is he not here?”
“I have bad news.”
“Bad news?” muttered Crispin, as though he understood not the meaning of the words. “Bad news?” he repeated musingly. Then bracing himself, “What is this news?”
“And you have brought the lady too!” Hogan complained. “Faith, I had hoped that you had failed in that at least.”
“Sdeath, Harry,” Crispin exclaimed. “Will you tell me the news?”
Hogan pondered a moment. Then:
“I will relate the story from the very beginning,” said he. “Some four hours after your departure from Waltham) my men brought in the malignant we were hunting. I dispatched my sergeant and the troop forthwith to London with the prisoner, keeping just two troopers with me. An hour or so later a coach clattered into the yard, and out of it stepped a short, lean man in black, with a very evil face and a crooked eye, who bawled out that he was Joseph Ashburn of Castle Marleigh, a friend of the Lord General’s, and that he must have horses on the instant to proceed upon his journey to London. I was in the yard at the time, and hearing the full announcement I guessed what his business in London was. He entered the inn to refresh himself and I followed him. In the common room the first man his eyes lighted on was your son. He gasped at sight of him, and when he had recovered his breath he let fly as round a volley of blasphemy as ever I heard from the lips of a Puritan. When that was over, “Fool,” he yells, “what make you here?” The lad stammered and grew confused. At last— “I was detained here,” says he. “Detained!” thunders the other, “and by whom?” “By my father, you murdering villain!” was the hot answer.
“At that Master Ashburn grows very white and very evil-looking. “So,” he says, in a playful voice, “you have learnt that, have you? Well, by God! the lesson shall profit neither you nor that rascal your father. But I’ll begin with you, you cur.” And with that he seizes a jug of ale that stood on the table, and empties it over the boy’s face. Soul of my body! The lad showed such spirit then as I had never looked to find in him. “Outside,” yells he, tugging at his sword with one hand, and pointing to the door with the other. “Outside, you hound, where I can kill you!” Ashburn laughed and cursed him, and together they flung past me into the yard. The place was empty at the moment, and there, before the clash of their blades had drawn interference, the thing was over — and Ashburn had sent his sword through Jocelyn’s heart.”
Hogan paused, and Crispin sat very still and white, his soul in torment.
“And Ashburn?” he asked presently, in a voice that was singularly hoarse and low. “What became of him? Was he not arrested?”
“No,” said Hogan grimly, “he was not arrested. He was buried. Before he had wiped his blade I had stepped up to him and accused him of murdering a beardless boy. I remembered the reckoning he owed you, I remembered that he had sought to send you to your death; I saw the boy’s body still warm and bleeding upon the ground, and I struck him with my knuckles on the mouth. Like the cowardly ruffian he was, he made a pass at me with his sword before I had got mine out. I avoided it narrowly, and we set to work.
“People rushed in and would have stopped us, but I cursed them so whilst I fenced, swearing to kill any man that came between us, that they held off and waited. I didn’t keep them overlong. I was no raw youngster fresh from the hills of Scotland. I put the point of my sword through Joseph Ashburn’s throat within a minute of our engaging.
“It was then as I stood in that shambles and looked down upon my handiwork that I recalled in what favour Master Ashburn was held by the Parliament, and I grew sick to think of what the consequences might be. To avoid them I got me there and then to horse, and rode in a straight line for Greenwich, hoping to find the Lady Jane still there. But my messenger had already sent her to Harwich for you. I was well ahead of possible pursuit, and so I pushed on to Dover, and thence I crossed, arriving here three days ago.”
Crispin rose and stepped up to Hogan. “The last time you came to me after killing a man, Harry, I was of some service to you. You shall find me no less useful now. You will come to Paris with me?”
“But the lady?” gasped Hogan, amazed at Crispin’s lack of thought for her.
“I hear her step upon the stairs. Leave me now, Harry, but as you go, desire the landlord to send for a priest. The lady remains.”
One look of utter bewilderment did Hogan bestow upon Sir Crispin, and for once his glib, Irish tongue could shape no other words than:
“Soul of my body!”
He wrung Crispin’s hand, and in a state of ineffable perplexity he hurried from the room to do what was required of him.
For a moment Crispin stood by the window, and looking out into the night he thanked God from his heart for his solution of the monstrous riddle that had been set him.
Then the rustle of a gown drew his attention, and he swung round to find Cynthia smiling upon him from the threshold.
He advanced to meet her, and setting his hands upon her shoulders, he held her at arm’s length, looking down into her eyes.
“Cynthia, my Cynthia!” he cried. And she, breaking past the barrier of his grasp, nestled up to him with a sigh of sweet and unalloyed content.
BARDELYS THE MAGNIFICENT
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE WAGER
CHAPTER II. THE KING’S WISHES
CHAPTER III. RENE DE LESPERON
CHAPTER IV. A MAID IN THE MOONLIGHT
CHAPTER V. THE VICOMTE DE LAVEDAN
CHAPTER VI. IN CONVALESCENCE
CHAPTER VII. THE HOSTILITY OF SAINT-EUSTACHE
CHAPTER VIII. THE PORTRAIT
CHAPTER IX. A NIGHT ALARM
CHAPTER X. THE RISEN DEAD
CHAPTER XI. THE KING’S COMMISSIONER
CHAPTER XII. THE TRIBUNAL OF TOULOUSE
CHAPTER XIII. THE ELEVENTH HOUR
CHAPTER XIV. EAVESDROPPING
CHAPTER XV. MONSIEUR DE CHATELLERAULT IS ANGRY
CHAPTER XVI. SWORDS!
CHAPTER XVII. THE BABBLING OF GANYMEDE
CHAPTER XVIII. SAINT-EUSTACHE IS OBSTINATE
CHAPTER XIX. THE FLINT AND THE STEEL
CHAPTER XX. THE “BRAVI” AT BLAGNAC
CHAPTER XXI. LOUIS THE JUST
CHAPTER XXII. WE UNSADDLE
CHAPTER I. THE WAGER
“Speak of the Devil,” whispered La Fosse in my ear, and, moved by the words and by the significance of his glance, I turned in my chair.
1The door had opened, and under the lintel stood the t
hick-set figure of the Comte de Chatellerault. Before him a lacquey in my escutcheoned livery of red-and-gold was receiving, with back obsequiously bent, his hat and cloak.
A sudden hush fell upon the assembly where a moment ago this very man had been the subject of our talk, and silenced were the wits that but an instant since had been making free with his name and turning the Languedoc courtship — from which he was newly returned with the shame of defeat — into a subject for heartless mockery and jest. Surprise was in the air for we had heard that Chatellerault was crushed by his ill-fortune in the lists of Cupid, and we had not looked to see him joining so soon a board at which — or so at least I boasted — mirth presided.
And so for a little space the Count stood pausing on my threshold, whilst we craned our necks to contemplate him as though he had been an object for inquisitive inspection. Then a smothered laugh from the brainless La Fosse seemed to break the spell. I frowned. It was a climax of discourtesy whose impression I must at all costs efface.
I leapt to my feet, with a suddenness that sent my chair gliding a full half-yard along the glimmering parquet of the floor, and in two strides I had reached the Count and put forth my hand to bid him welcome. He took it with a leisureliness that argued sorrow. He advanced into the full blaze of the candlelight, and fetched a dismal sigh from the depths of his portly bulk.
“You are surprised to see me, Monsieur le Marquis,” said he, and his tone seemed to convey an apology for his coming — for his very existence almost.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 40